


In the Quiet Moments

by Nativestar



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:20:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28982505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nativestar/pseuds/Nativestar
Summary: After a mission goes sideways, Mac recovers at home.  He's asleep more than he's awake but everytime he wakes up he notices that something has been done for him.  Flashfic from a tumblr prompt.
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41





	In the Quiet Moments

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt found [here](https://allthewhumpygoodness.tumblr.com/post/616599084670812160/bedridden-whumpee-who-notices-each-time-they-wake) by @allthewhumpygoodness

Mac doesn’t remember getting home. He remembers the op going bad but he doesn’t remember the journey to medical at all. He woozily recalls getting checked out, stitches and discharged and leaving in the dark hours of the morning. He knows he came home in his own jeep but he can’t be sure who drove him.

Whoever it was, they were kind enough to make sure his curtains were pulled shut and Mac is grateful as he blinks his eyes open cautiously, there’s only a dim glow in the room rather than the brain stabbing bright sunlight there would have been otherwise. He’s in his own bed, in his own soft pyjamas and although he still isn’t sure who helped him get here it feels like a very Jack thing to do.

The house is quiet and although he’s alone in his room he knows better than to think he’s been left alone in the house. The painkillers he was given at medical are still working, still pulling him under and back to sleep so he sighs, and relaxes into it. Maybe next time he’ll get up…

A sharp throbbing pain in his head wakes him the second time. He rolls over to his side quickly and has to hold on tight to the edge of the bed as he breathes carefully through the nausea. He notices someone has moved his trash can next to the bed but thankfully, he stops just short of needing to use it. He carefully sags against the bed, closing his eyes with a sigh. He wishes he didn’t have quite so much experience with how much concussions suck. He peels his eyes open again and notices a glass of water on his bedside table along with a recently filled prescription for painkillers.

Whoever brought him home is a saint.

His hands shake slightly as he helps himself to the recommended dose and manages to drink half the glass before his stomach warns him to stop. His head is pounding to the beat of his heart by the time he’s done and he closes his eyes again, and waits for the painkillers to kick in.

At some point, sleep steals him away again. He wakes later briefly, just long enough to shiver and roll into his duvet like its a cocoon. His headache thrums in the background, its too soon to take more medication and he thinks his coldness is probably a sign he has a fever. But he recalls enough to know the doctor said developing a mild fever was not uncommon and he wouldn’t need to come back in unless it was high. 

He’s too tired to get out of bed and find a thermometer. He trusts that anyone who cares about him enough to close the curtains, leave a trash can by the bed and make sure he was hydrated and medicated will also make sure he doesn’t fry his brain with a fever. He drifts off to that comforting thought, exhaustion blunting his curiosity as to who is looking after him.

He wakes up again to find an extra blanket covering him and he feels toasty warm from his head to his feet. He thinks he remembers a cool hand brushing across his forehead as he slept, and sweeping back his hair to check his stitches but its equally likely he dreamt it. The crescendo of his headache is rising again and his hand slips out of the blankets to grab his next dose with some more water. The light in his room is dimmer now, and a small part of him regrets that he’s slept an entire day away. A bigger part of him regrets missing whoever is looking after him, his brief periods of consciousness never coinciding with their visits.

He snuggles down into his bed, and closes his eyes, hoping for a better tomorrow.

Morning comes all too quickly, but Mac counts that as a good thing because it means he slept all the way through. His headache beats a steady rhythm but its muted compared to yesterday and he knows the painkillers will knock it back completely today. His glass of water has been refilled so he takes the medication first then drags himself out of bed. His legs are only slightly wobbly and he pointedly bypasses his mirror entirely as he heads out his room. He really doesn’t care what his bed head is like, nor the colourful bruises that will no doubt have blossomed on his face. He feels better, but ‘better’ is still a relative term.

Mac walks down the hallway, towards the voices he can hear in the lounge, ready to thank whoever has been taking care of him. It feels a lot like Jack. Its usually Jack and while his helicopter parenting can be a bit much Mac truly is grateful for it this time. Then again, Bozer is a worrier and at times a mother hen. It could equally be him. Its not likely to be Riley, he’s sure he was more or less carried in from his jeep, but if anyone would be considerate for his needs while giving him space to sleep it off, it would be Riley.

Whoever it was, Mac just knows he’s lucky to be loved like that.


End file.
